


esurio

by winchestersinthedrift



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Blow Jobs, Blushing Sam, Embarrassment, Library Sex, Like so much, M/M, Masturbation, Season/Series 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9720728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift
Summary: Max and Alicia get to the bunker a few hours early.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themegalosaurus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/gifts).



> This is a massively belated birthday gift for themegalosaurus and is so much better for having been beta'd by deadlybride - thank you, zz!

Alicia drives the last five hours into Lebanon. They’d ball-parked they’d get there after supper, butMax stayed up most of the night before cracking a weird Coptic triptych and they were on the road by 6.30 am. Max drove for a few hours, wired on coffee and red bull, and then he rolled himself out in the back of the jeep and crashed so hard that when Alicia hits the parking brake it takes him a few seconds to orient himself. When he swipes sleep-fumbly at his phone it’s 4.17.

‘Did you let ‘em know we’d be early?’ Max says, still blinking a lot, trying to wake up. ‘This is like - really early.’

‘No service,’ she said, ‘fucking Verizon. Kept dropping out. Anyway, they won’t care. We come bearing gifts.’ She slides out of the driver’s seat and pulls a crate of beer after her, balances it on one hip. ‘You comin’? Lover-boy’s waiting.’ Max rolls his eyes at her, goes hot in the face a little like he’s a teenager.

‘Christ,’ he says, glares at her. It’s no secret he had a crush on Sam before he even met him, pretty much, and certainly quite a lot which he actually _did_ meet him, all tall and hot and legendary and, well, be-flanneled, perched on the edge of the couch at Asa’s; and then, even more, when they came through Kansas last month and stopped in overnight so Max could have a look at the bunker’s library. What kicked the whole thing up a level to full-out My Little Pony hearteyes (as Alicia remarked, after) was finding out over after-supper beers that Sam was bi. Swapping hunting stories had turned into a sort of thaumaturgical never-have-I-ever, escalated by Alicia’s good-natured egging-on and Dean’s determination not to be out-played.

‘Never have I ever used a charm for romantic ends,’ Alicia had said, four beers in, and when none of them had drank she’d pounced on Max (’Kevin Billings, when you were 14, you dork’). Dean, who was five beers and a long shot of tequila in, had said, with a sort of proud exoticising fondness, ‘oo, nice, Sam’s half that’, whereupon Sam had closed his eyes for a long exasperated second, said ‘Dean that’s now how it wor-’ and Max had made placating gestures of ‘I know what he means’ across the table and he and Sam had spent the rest of the night glancing at each other with new interest. Well, he’d definitely glanced at Sam, and he’d bet twenty bucks Sam was glancing back.

(‘Of course he was,’ Alicia had said, the next day.

‘You have to say that,’ Max said, but he’d hoped.)

Now Dean lets them in at the bunker entrance, pads down the stairs ahead of them still watching the youtube video he’d had playing when they knocked.

‘It’s musical otters,’ he says, without further explanation, and then, ‘brewskies!’ when Alicia slides the beer crate into the fridge. ‘Nice. Wanna scotch, while those babies cool down?’

Alicia follows him into the library but Max lingers in the doorway.

‘Gotta,’ he says, tongue still thick with sleep. ‘Uh, the closest bathroom is -?’

‘Third on the left,’ says Dean, not really paying attention, and Max wanders into the hallway, rubs both his hands down over his face. He needs a coffee, bad. Or maybe a beer. The third door down is heavy and metal-grey, a fire-door or something like it,and he pauses a little, confused. Third just on the left or the left one once you’ve passed three on both sides?He doesn’t remember a bathroom here at all, last time, thinks he just used the one down at the end of the hall by his bedroom, but, hey, he really needs to pee. He pulls on the door and it swings open easier than he’d have guessed from the look of it. There’s a little entryway inside, a bit of hall and then another door, and, OK, this feels reassuringly like a bathroom, at least a weird semi-public one, so he pushes open the inner door. There’s thick steam, warm and disorienting in his face, and noise - water hard on concrete - and then the steam clears a little and he can see Sam across the room, standing under a showerhead.

There’s a line of them, five or six spaced evenly along one wall, but only a small part of his brain notices that at all cause mostly he’s staring at Sam, who’s facing three-quarters towards him, left hand planted against the wall, feet braced hard on the floor a couple feet apart, head down, hair falling across his profile, and he’s _jerking off_ , stripping his cock with one hand from the root, hard and quick, _shlickshlickshlick_. His eyes are scrunched tight closed, teeth bared and lips a little open, and - fuck, he’s really close, the straining muscles in his thighs are jerking a little, and just as Max’s brain registers, kicks back in, just as he blinks and starts to stumble back, Sam makes a muffled noise and bites his lip, opens his eyes, and he’s staring right at Max, blinking, unfocused, as his cock spurts creamy over his knuckles and fist. Max can’t look away, can’t stop staring at Sam’s face and the big muscle-cut lines of his body, a dark pink flush flooding up his chest; at his open mouth and the wrinkles cutting horrified over his eyes; at the hand cupped over his dick (long, obscenely long fingers that Max has thought about a lot) and the other hand running nervous, flighty, unconscious defensive over his chest, his ribs, up to his neck. He’s looking at the wall roughly just to the right of Max’s head, lips pink and open, breathing hard and trying to catch it, get himself under control, a picture of flustered reticence, post-coital vulnerability so erotic that Max’s dick throbs, stiffens down one pant leg.

The moment stretches out suspended, pendulous with tension, and then Sam’s hips stutter a little again into his fist, aftershock, and they both breathe.

‘Oh,’ Sam says, startled back into the moment, horrified, ‘oh, _shit.’_

Max rocks back on one foot, spreads his hands palms up in a physical reflex of apology.

‘Dude,’ he says, ‘Sam, sorry, oh man, I’m sorry, fuck,’ and Sam says at the same time ‘oh my god - fuck _fuck_ -’ and lurches for a towel on the stand across the room. His voice is husky-thick, unsteady. Max feels a little woozy from the layers of tension. He’s super hard, and also still really has to pee, and also Sam Winchester, crush/world-saver/living legend, is standing across the room, ropes of muscle in his thighs still quivering, cock softening in those intoxicating fingers and his face a fraught mingling of physical release and fight-level adrenaline. He grips the towel tighter, says

‘I’m really, Max, I'm so - I’m so sorry, I didn’t think - I thought you were - I mean, was just thinking about you coming -’ he stops, jerks back on himself, turns a darker shade of pink. ‘- that you were coming by tonight but I thought - fuck. Max. I’m really. I’m sorry - this is so. Terrible. I thought not till tonight. _Fuck._ ’

‘Sam,’ says Max, and pauses, rocks back a bit on his heel, _looks._ When he goes on his tone is deeper, reassuringly languid. ‘It’s not - it’s fine, man. It happens. It’s a dick, it’s - fine. I, you know, I like ‘em. And yours is -’ he stops, hesitates, tries to feel out how fast to tread. ‘I mean, people jerk off.’ He’s moving a little, shifting his weight more than heading for the door, letting his physicality fill the space a little, and Sam’s still looking at him and - he thinks, he _thinks_ , he hopes, he casts his bread upon the waters and - ‘fuck, man,’ he says, licks his lips, ‘it was really hot.’

Sam doesn’t look away, which Max takes as a good sign. Instead he bites his lower lip, deliberate, lets it drag out slow between his teeth, and shakes his head so water sprays out around his shoulders. The shower’s still on, beating hypnotic against the concrete floor. Sam jerks his hand once up the length of his soft cock, still holding eye contact, and Max can’t help it, he grabs his crotch, instinctive, hardly breathing, holds the heel of his thumb hard against the line of his dick.

‘Yeah?’ says Sam, eyes hooded a little, hand still palming gentle over his dick, and Max puts a hand over his tshirt, over his fucking _heart_ , ok, prepares to declare lust and love and what else he doesn't know, takes a step, and then there’s a massive clatter through the wall and the pipes groan and the tension breaks, Sam looks behind him, moves toward the shower to turn it off.

‘I’ll go see-’ says Max, crosses his forearms behind his head, loathe to leave the room. He pauses with his hand on the door, turns his head back towards Sam. ‘Later,’ he says, and goes out. 

And besides he _really_ has to pee.

 

Supper, thank god, is mostly non-conversational: nachos and the last half of a horror movie marathon in the makeshift tv room, cobbled together in one of the extra bedrooms from two ratty Goodwill couchesand an old cathode-ray tube TV. Max helps chop tomatoes and tries to think cheek-cooling thoughts, and when Sam comes into the kitchen a few minutes later, hair still damp, he manages to say hi without his voice breaking, which he takes as a win. Dean asks if they’ve ever come across necrotic fungi in the northwest part of the state, and that lasts five minutes and a digression into the magical properties of herbs on the first Spanish ships coming up the west coast in the 17th century; Max manages a loaded glance to Alicia while Sam’s pulling up a freight list on his phone, and she pulls a face somewhere between delight and a knuckling to the head, but when they’re done supper and halfway through Event Horizon she manages to bring up karaoke and, shortly thereafter, her intense desire to sing ‘I’m On Fire’. Five minutes later Dean’s going upstairs to start the car and Alicia’s following, casting significant glances on her way out, and Max takes a breath, rubs his palms flat on his jeans. Sam’s tipping a mostly-empty beer bottle back and forth on one thigh, pretending to watch Sam Neill disembowel a crew member. His adam’s apple is bobbing in his throat, though, nervous, and Max closes his eyes for a minute to calm down, keep himself from climbing right up into Sam’s lap.

‘Hey,’ says Sam, and Max opens his eyes. Sam’s still playing with the bottle, rolling it easy between his long fingers, looking up and then glancing away. ‘I just - listen, I just wanna apologise again for - uh -’ he’s blushing again, pink flushing in ink-blot puddles up his neck, and Max clenches a hand, digs the fingertips into his thigh, remembers Sam’s flustered breathlessness in the showers, muscled shoulders curling in a little, eyes still blown dilated-black with arousal, the full-body flush of being _seen_. Max’s dick hardens and he shifts on the couch, adjusts.

‘No, man,’ he says. He’s trying to read Sam’s body language, trying to make himself stop and try to read it through the fog of his own hormones. ‘I mean, I didn’t mean to - if I overstepped - listen, I’m really-’

‘No,’ says Sam, fast. ‘It was - I was - I kind of, liked it.’

‘Yeah?’ says Max, and his gut sorta steps off a cliff.

‘Yeah,’ says Sam, quiet, puts the beer bottle down, and Max is up and out of his chair and leaning over Sam, catching his mouth, kissing him ( _kissing_ him!), and Sam’s all open-faced and happy, kissing back open-mouthed, pulling Max down over his knees. He ends up almost straddling Sam, knees digging into the couch on either side of Sam’s hips, close enough he can feel Sam’s breathing go a little ragged against his chest. He tilts his head up a little, presses in, kisses Sam deep and open-mouthed, hungry, till Sam lets his head go loose against the back of the couch, all warm and pliant underneath him.

‘You were - I mean,’ he says, right up against Sam’s face, ‘you were - it was, like - obscenely hot, ok, all big and hard and - so _quiet.’_

‘You like that?’ says Sam, breathing hard, pink flushed up to his neck, moving his hips so Max wedges in tighter against them.

‘Yeah,’ says Max, warm and sure. ‘I do. But I’d like to make you - stop being quiet, too.’

It takes a second for Sam to process this; then he does, and he makes a sort of gulping noise, tightens up all over.

‘I’m not very,’ he says, ‘I don’t - I’m not - I don’t really. I’m never loud.’ He says it simply, self-deprecating statement of fact. Max shifts forward on Sam’s thighs, runs one hand over Sam’s hair, cups the back of his head just where it meets the nape of his neck.

‘That sounds like a challenge,’ he says, deliberate, and it hangs in the air between them, full and throbbing. Sam rolls his head up a little so that Max’s lips drag across Sam’s forehead and over the bridge of his nose and Sam’s mouth finds his, kisses him all warm wet open-mouthed. It takes till the end of the kiss, till Sam breaks off and breathes, for his eyes to flick up and meet Max’s, and there’s so much - something, there, steel-cored vulnerability, like Sam’s holding himself inside out and open through sheer determination, that Max can’t help it, he can’t, he cups Sam’s jaw in both his hands and holds it for a minute, feels the weight of it settle a little into his palms.

‘OK,’ says Sam, and widens his legs, settles further into the couch. He’s already breathing shallow. Max glances up at the clock and Sam’s eyes follow.

‘Do we not-’ he says, like he’s ready to resign himself, and Max’s heart kind of jostles in his chest.

‘We’re fine,’ he says, ‘Alicia will handle it. Really.’ He stands up and pulls off his tshirt, enjoys the way Sam’s eyes go glassy, the way he wriggles unconsciously against the couch. He undoes his belt, fingers dragging purposefully slow over the loop, and steps out of his jeans, drops his hand down and makes a bit of a show of adjusting his cock. He’s long past stiff; there’s a spot of wet soaked through the purple briefs already, just under the waistband. He runs his hands inside the elastic, cups his balls.

‘This ok?’ he says, really soft, watching Sam, and Sam swallows, moves his hands restless against his own chest, like he’d done in the bathroom, and Max wants him so bad he thinks he might die. Sam nods, and Max breaks soft into a smile.

‘So I can hear,’ he says, and Sam says

‘Ah - uh - yeah.’

‘Yeah what,’ says Max, and takes a step closer, socks shuffling on the concrete floor. For a minute he wonders if he’s playing it too hard here, if he shouldn’t - if Sam doesn’t actually -

‘It’s ok,’ says Sam, thick and blurty, licks his lips, ‘this is - good,’ and Max puts out a hand and pulls him up out of the sofa, pulls him right down the hall and into the library. They stand in the doorframe a minute, Max watching Sam and Sam looking out across the tables, trembling a little.

‘I’ve fantasised about this like - a thousand times, dude,’ says Max, ‘in here, on a table,’ and Sam kind looks sideways at him, meets his eyes.

‘Yeah?’ he says, and then Max starts kissing him again and they’re stumbling against the nearest desk, shoving the chairs out of the way. They make out for awhile with Sam’s ass on the edge of the desk and Max’s hips between his thighs, crotch to crotch, and it’s such a crazy sensation, pressed up against someone his size, bigger, tall enough that his bulge grinds up against Max’s dick, all that muscle under his hands and Sam’s fingers pulling him harder, further in, almost over Sam’s thighs - he almost loses himself in it, but catches his breath, falls back a little.

‘Come here,’ says Sam, breathless, blind with it, fingers dragging at Max’s back.

‘You like it?’ says Max, getting a knee up against the table edge, holding, pausing, breathing hard himself. Sam looks at him like he’s nuts.

‘Dude,’ he says, and pulls again, and still Max holds.

‘Let me hear it,’ he says, even, and when he sees Sam start to reply, ‘not - no, not that. Don’t tell me. _Noise,’_ and Sam turns a darker shade of pink and stares at him, flustered.

‘I don’t really-’ he says, again, ‘erm-’ and breaks off, embarrassed, rubs distractingly along Max’s biceps.

‘Just - a little,’ Max says, and kisses him again, long and deep. He gets his hands down on Sam’s belt and undoes it, unzips his jeans, and Sam slides off the table enough to push them down his legs with the toes of one foot. Max steps up inside Sam’s thighs again and just stays there a minute, runs his hands up Sam’s shoulders and the sides of his neck and kisses him, lets his belly rub up against the line of Sam’s dick inside his shorts. Sam’s moaning a little into Max’s mouth, hips rocking rhythmically into him, so hard the head of his cock’s up above the waistband of his shorts. Max can feel the wet of it against his belly. He’s a little short of breath, that particular low-level panic that follows in the wake of intense arousal. He makes himself focus on the way Sam’s rutting in quick little movements against him, slick and needy, focus on Sam’s hands in the back of his briefs, gripping and pulling his ass-cheeks apart, his big knees knocking up against Max’s hips, reflexively jerking, the long shins wrapping around the back of Max’s thighs.

‘Sam,’ says Max, against his mouth, ‘I’m gonna - gonna get down on my knees and suck you off but - make noise, please, ok? fuck, man, do some pretty moaning, it’s the hottest thing, it’s-’ He steps back, hesitates a minute. Sam’s leaning back a little, hands behind him on the table, one arm locked and shoulders braced wide, looking at him, and Max quick pushes down his briefs, glances to see Sam looking as he lets his cock bob up free in front of him, stiff and thick, and then he runs his palm up its underside and jerks it a couple times, pulls the foreskin down slow over the head. It’s gleaming, almost purple-hard, sticky-threaded with precome.

‘You like that?’ he says, quiet, and Sam swallows and gives a groan, hesitant, his eyes flicking to Max’s face. Max’s chest lurches. He grips his dick, feels it jerk up against his palm. ‘Good, Sam,’ he says, ‘yeah, just like that,’ and he gets down on his knees and shoves Sam’s thighs apart a little more roughly than he’d need to, really, knows he’s right when Sam makes a gulpy gasp above him.

Sam’s wearing boxer-briefs, some kind of smooth polyester blend, tight enough that the line of his dick is outlined clear against the fabric. He’s breathing so hard that his whole torso is moving with it, chest heaving, as Max settles back on his heels, keeps one hand splayed out firm against Sam’s inner thigh. With the other he runs two fingers inside the waistband of Sam’s shorts. He looks up, gets Sam’s gaze fixed back on his. Sam looks wrecked already, eyes narrowed a little, gasping, and Max almost loses it right then, almost climbs on top of him and grinds them both to kingdom come, but -

‘I can’t hear you,’ he says instead, puts a little gravel in it, presses his hand harder into Sam’s thigh. Sam sucks in a breath like he’s drowning and lets it out like a low moan and Max stands back up between his legs and kisses him, swallows the noise, while he peels off Sam’s shorts, while Sam lifts up his hips and lets Max push them down past his knees. When the whine dies out against his tongue Max pulls back, says ‘don’t stop, you sound so fucking good Sam’ and Sam’s breath hitches in his chest but he starts again, lower this time, moaning little pants, and Max kisses him again, sucks his tongue, says ‘good, good, Sam, make sure I can hear it’ and kneels back down between his legs.

He’s already got Sam’s cock loose in his fist but now he lets himself look at it, the pale heft of it, pink-veined and curved a little, the softness of the brown hair at its root. He tightens his grip a little, feels the rigid core of it startle against his palm. He’s so hard himself it’s painful now, his dick an uncomfortable weight between his legs, balls drawing up into the hot aching pit of him. Sam’s rocking a little on the edge of the table, long guttural groans, mixed up with ‘please’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘holy _shit_ Max yeah’. Max licks his lips, nudges two knuckles of his other hand up behind Sam’s balls so he stroke a slow roll along his perineum, and Sam positively _keens,_ drops his head back so his hair brushes his shoulders, and Max lets his mouth slide down over the head of Sam’s cock, over the shaft, and Max can feel Sam’s panting right through his dick, the hungry shudder of it against his cheeks. He slides up and down a few times, gets the feel of it, lets himself savour the taste of it for a second, and then he starts to suckle, wet and gentle and thirsty, knocks Sam’s thighs out further with his forearms and sucks slick and warm on his dick and Sam starts to shake, he’s so close already his belly is quivering and he holds his breath, stops moaning, stops breathing, tightens in a rictus, and Max lifts up his head and looks up, lips wet.

‘Please,’ says Sam, faint, startled, frantic, and Max says

‘I said let me _hear you’_

puts his head back down and deepthroats him, takes him all in, pushes down so far Sam’s soft hair is in his lips and nose and he tongues him, kneads a little harder with his knuckles behind Sam’s balls and Sam _yells_ , a strangled groaning cry, loud, _loud,_ holds it, lets it pitch higher and juddery as he comes, legs almost spread-eagled, Max’s hands holding him open, comes hot and salty down Max’s throat.

Max keeps his hand cupped light over Sam’s cock while it softens, stands back up between Sam’s knees. Sam’s lying back on the table, head knocked up against one of the green-shade lamps, laughing a little, quiet shuddery breathless laughter, and Max can taste him still on his tongue. He keeps his hand light over Sam’s dick, nudges up between his legs till he hits the table with his thighs. Sam’s all sprawled out in the lamp-light, sticky, sated, breath fluttering under his ribs, and it’s really, really, hot and Max can’t quite, he can’t, he looks at this body before him, gone to hell and back, this man who’s had the devil and world both suspended from his flesh and now, now the taste of him is in Max’s _mouth_ -

‘Come on me,’ says Sam, unexpected, hoarse, and Max leans in over his body, braces himself on the table with one hand. He leans down, close.

‘Yeah?’ he says, and Sam puts his head up enough to kiss him wet and tongue-swiping.

‘Yeah,’ says Sam, so Max gets a hand down between them and jerks off over Sam’s pecs, breathing in the scent of him and watching the dark flush of blood still running up Sam’s throat, the sweat glistening heavy over his neck and jawline, and just, just before Max comes Sam curls up a little and bites his earlobe, lets it hang between his teeth while Max shudders and spurts hot between them.

For a minute they lie there, warm and sticky. Max gets up on his elbows, glances over to the next desk.

‘Is that a copy of _Arcana Thessalonika_?’ he says, and under him, against his belly, Sam laughs.


End file.
